iwritewhatineedtoread

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

My lantern lights, while I write.

Dear The One Who Listens,

I write to you under the safety net of my tree. It’s a wonderful tree, full of lush indigo heart-shaped leaves, while the soft moss underneath it all provides something like a pillow. You must love it as well, yes? Although, I guess I cannot be so sure of this. I don’t know you do I? You read my words, you get to know me (you know my favorite tree at least), but I don’t know you. Maybe it’s dangerous to write to you, but I don't care. Because you’re listening to me like I’ve always wanted and you read my words as you’re doing right now. I don’t know if you read with an open or judgemental mind, but with all my heart I hope it’s the first. Maybe this won’t even reach anyone but if you’re reading this you’re going to be my someone. I know it in the  caverns of my soul. 

Soul sounds so much more like forever than heart, doesn’t it? Hearts are temporary, fading and sickening with time, decomposing when its host is gone… Souls are infinite in time. They’re the human energy that causes nerves to light up with personality, ambitions, both love and lust. Altruicity and greed. Patience and wrath. 

Yes, I am more partial to the soul than the heart. 

I write to you because I need someone to listen to me. Believe the words I write, listen and not laugh in mocking at my ambitions and hopes for the future. 

Fear for me when I say I am writing at night, in a white glowing gown, where the wolves groan and moan in hunger, with a lantern by my side on uneven ground, sitting on flammable moss. Yes, fear for me. For this is the situation I have placed myself in now. On purpose. 

Maybe that is what’s wrong with me. I am too attracted to danger. Hence, my current situation, and this letter. 

You see, One Who Listens, I’ve always believed something was wrong with me. Maybe of my own doing. For what God would make a creature like me, with an achingly beautiful longing inside to leave The Cube. At least, it would be beautiful if life was like the poetry I read in my books. 

The Cube is what keeps us safe. I know this. The world knows this. But I wish it wasn’t true. Our world is small, One Who Listens. I’ve already explored every cranny and nook and keyhole. Already lived every adventure here. Nothing I’ve done so far has squelched the adventurousness inside. Maybe writing to you will help. 

Sincerely,

Rionach of the Blue Blood Clan

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

Writing a prologue after ignoring all the writing advice that says prologues are unnecessary is something that can be so personal

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

tag yourself, i’m a writer and gifmaker/editor 😐😐😐

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

*re-reads own fics when having writer’s-block* Wow I wish I could write like this :/

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

that feeling when you write and just. can't. stop >>

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

rereading my own writing is just a constant fluctuation between "damn, girl, you wrote this? (affectionate)" and "damn, girl, you wrote this? (derogatory)"

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

general writing advice, actually: you don’t need an excuse beyond “BUT WOULDN’T THIS BE COOL” to write something into your fic. write things in solely because they make you cackle with the delight of a 12-year-old-boy playing with his dinosaur toys. it’s fun and there’s nothing stopping you or any of us at all any longer.

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

Reblog to give the person you reblogged it from motivation to work on their fics.

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

writing comments in the tags on this site feels like making the world's most deranged personal journal entries

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

I’m a writer, I say, as I look up a word I already know the meaning of to make absolutely sure I know the meaning of it

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

i love fucking with language. it is such an amazing and enjoyable part of writing? words are just made up so why not? use adjectives as verbs. use nouns as adjectives. invent words. use them in incorrect order. add too many commas. fuck around. it’s great.

people praise shakespeare for inventing words so why not me? there is no difference i will simply do what i want.

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

writing tip #3426:

scream incoherently at the word doc

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

Actually, can we talk about how Garbage a lot of ubiquitous writing advice in the late 2000's was?

Like "you have to begin in the middle of the action! your first line has to be a 'hook' that draws the reader further into the story!"

This is the bullshit responsible for the amount of books that begin in the middle of some sort of pointless fucking action scene that I care nothing about because I just got here.

Like I guess this makes books easier to "sell" or whatever on some level of the process, but it's garbage storytelling advice because setup and establishment of the Way Things Are is almost always necessary.

On some level I don't think it's actually possible to begin a story right on top of the "inciting incident" because...you don't have the raw materials to "incite" anything with. If you have to set up basic things about the characters and world after the "inciting incident," it's not really the inciting incident anymore, is it?

The event that "launches" a character into their plot line is something that follows from the character's established situation, desires, traits etc. It's a follow-up to a situation that makes a Story of some kind inevitable.

It is, by definition, an event that makes no sense and does not matter to the reader at all unless the "setup" already exists.

If you try to begin right in the middle of the event that "sparks" the plot, you're going to end up including a second, "real" event that actually does the job, because you can't do the job if the character, the stakes, the rules, etc. are not there yet.

Now the action scene you stuck to the beginning of your story is probably dead weight that is getting in the way of the setup.

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

[iwritewhatineedtoread]

Let me tell you a story. A short one, one that will only take a few minutes of your time and some imagination.

One fine day you wake up, you get out of bed (maybe not right away, that’s okay, that works, too), and you look down at arms and legs that are just slightly wrong. Your voice is strange, still yours to a point where you can recognize it, but the pitch is off, and no matter how much you try, you can’t get it to sound right again. You get yourself to a mirror and stare at someone. That person has similar eyes and similar hair, the same scars, but they’re not the person you saw in the mirror yesterday or any day before that. There’s something wrong about them, about you, about you being them. You get out of your room, anxious about how you’ll explain your sudden metamorphosis to your friends and family, but they don’t notice anything wrong. They address you in the same tone of voice and with the same expression they always do when they greet you, but with the wrong name. You try to explain: “no, I’m not them, I’m me, I don’t know what happened.”

“What ‘you’?” they ask. “I haven’t heard that before. Have you picked up a nickname?”

They know this person, the one you woke up as, in every aspect in which they have known you: you’re still family to your family, a friend to your friends, a colleague to your colleagues. You’re just not you, not the way you’re supposed to be.

But, it’s not so terrible, right? You’re not a bug or a monster, you’re just another person, similar to the one you’ve been. You can live like this, under this name, with this voice, with this body, your whole life – or rather, this person’s whole life. It shouldn’t be so terrible.

You try it.

You flinch a little every time you see your reflection in the mirror, every time you're called by their name, every time someone mentions your appearance – this person’s appearance, even in the nicest of ways. But time goes by, and you get accustomed to it, you dull your discomfort, you grow numb.

One day you tell yourself: “Maybe they’re right. Everyone thinks I’m them. I can’t know better than everyone, can I?”

And then you think, trying to make your inner voice sound as much like yourself as possible: “But I do know better. I have a name. I have a voice. I have a face. I am me, and I am trapped here, and this is wrong, wrong, wrong.”

The next time you meet your family, you explain it to them again, like you did the very first day. You tell them your name. You tell them your story.

They’re confused and concerned and sad that you’re in pain, but in the end, they don’t believe you. They think you should get help, yes, with remembering who you actually are, not with getting your name and appearance back. You cannot possibly be a different person from the one they’ve known you as your whole life. That doesn’t make sense. You really ought to look into getting some treatment.

You try again, with your friends. Same concerned expressions, same wall of disbelief between you, the real you, and them. Maybe you hear the word “freak” for the first time, if you weren’t too picky when choosing your friends.

This is where your fight starts. It’s long and lonely and full of people trying to prove that they know who you are better than you do. You look for help, for understanding, running into wall after wall after wall. The desperation you are fighting with confuses the people you know: why would you do this? You’re a perfectly good person, so why do you want to ruin yourself? Why do you want to be someone else?

You don’t want to be someone else – you tried, you really did try – and now you just want to be you, to be seen as yourself, nothing more. And you cannot explain this, not in a way they’d understand, because you speak of the person you are in a voice that says otherwise, with a face that says otherwise, and when you say “I am me” you hear the pitch of your voice add lies, it’s all lies.

But hey, dear reader, it’s not like this actually happens to people. This is just a little story that took some of your time for your own entertainment. Have a good day.